


King Me

by checkmat3y



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Begging, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Fist Fights, Hotel Sex, Jealousy, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Possessive Behavior, Slut Shaming, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 07:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkmat3y/pseuds/checkmat3y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph tries to forget about LeBron, but LeBron doesn't go away that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eins

**Author's Note:**

> So, this one started to get kinda long. XD So I made it into two chapters! ;)  
> Second part coming soon! I'm wondering if anyone cares now that it's off season..
> 
> But did anyone see the ESPY's where Steph mentioned LeBron in his speech omg

The trip in Napa doesn’t last longer than a week. The Curry family was feeling homesick, and Steph was just feeling sick, emotionally. A day trying not to think about LeBron is like learning how to breathe again– every inhale burns and every exhale breaks. His lungs struggle to accommodate it, like a foreign gas, rejects it with a sputter of coughs and spit. The wound is still new, still fresh, band aid replaced daily.

 

It doesn’t take long for him to adjust to off-season life, hanging out with old friends, relaxing with family, and partying in the clubs – his friends beg him to go out, try to get him to pick up women, but their attempts are useless. Steph always makes an excuse go home alone, to work out his anger, working out until he passes out without a thought in his head. Everything is off, and he isn’t himself. Everyone can see it, but they all think it’s from losing the championship. They worry, mostly, because it’s like watching the floor collapse under him, and they can only stand back and hope it doesn’t devour him whole

 

There’s days he doesn’t leave his house at all, doesn’t answer his phone or talk to anyone. It’s only been a week since he’s talked to LeBron, but it feels like months. Two weeks without him is like learning how to walk with no legs. He uninstalls Instagram from his phone, ignores his twitter, and deletes his texts but leaves his number. The prince had left the kingdom, hiding in a cave nearby.

 

It’s only hours after he hears about Durant coming to the Warriors when LeBron finally texts him, reaching out after weeks.  And he has to admit he’s excited to play with such a skilled player and start over, but a part of him understands the bitterness coming from the rest of the league. He wonders what it will be like to play with him, if it would be awkward, tries not to wonder what LeBron thinks. He doesn’t talk about it with the team– can already imagine how self-conscious, how neurotically self-absorbed he sounds. He tries not to vomit

 

Steph’s coming home from picking up dinner when he gets the text. Setting the pizza box and his keys on the counter, he glances down at the phone in his other hand. He’s alone, and it’s late. He expects it to be Klay or Sean asking to go out, but he’s dead wrong.

_James: so tired of losing u need to bring in Durant?_

 

Momentarily, Steph thinks how unfortunate his luck must be. LeBron is always right around the corner, waiting to pounce as Steph waits in return. Steph wonders how long he will search for him, and Steph, with every fiber of his being, knows that he will always linger.

 

He shouldn’t text back. Absolutely should ignore it. He knows this. Every logical part of him knows this.

 

But he hates the law of nature, the possibilities that, at the end of the day, really are not possibilities at all. And the thought is so wretched he wants to vomit. But he doesn’t text back, ignores the phone, the call to adventure.

 

 Instead, he follows his thoughts out of the kitchen, curls up on the couch and watches infomercials on mute to ease his pounding head.

 

For a long moment, he just sits there, hands fiddling thoughtfully with the ties on his shorts before he pulls a blanket and tugs it over himself. He’s silent and smiling, proud of himself.

 

But somewhere on his face, sullen and tired, is the realization that he can’t ignore LeBron forever.

 

* * *

 

When Steph wakes up, he checks his phone for messages. Except, he can’t find his phone because he’s been sulking on the coach like the pitiful loser he’s become, tv still cycling through non-stop infomercials. His starts pounding from the uncomfortable sleeping, and he immediately regrets his indolence.

 

He wrestles out of his blankets and finally gets off the coach, slowly trudging toward the kitchen counter. Glancing at the door like he expects someone to catch him, Steph unlocks his phone and peers at the messages left for him.

 

His heart instantly starts pounding, only quieting once he realizes there are no messages from LeBron. There’s plenty from his friends and family asking how he is doing, and he suddenly realizes he’s going to have to lay off the sulking. It’s getting stupid. People are noticing. And LeBron clearly doesn’t care, doesn’t text again. He looks at the time stamp again

_James: so tired of losing u need Durant? [1:00 a.m.]_

Steph wonders if LeBron only wants to talk to him after midnight, but he assumes it’s a coincidence since it’s around the same time they last spoke, more than spoke. Even just thinking about it makes him sick to his stomach, and he still has to stop himself from checking Instagram tonight. He regrets sending it, knowing what he knows now. The whole thing – them – whatever they were, it was nothing. It should never have happened; he tells himself this to get to sleep at night. He wants it to be true.

 

Tossing the phone back onto the counter, he meanders across the kitchen to his coffee maker and smiles at the coffee ready for the morning. The rich, aromatic smell fills the room, and he takes a deep breath, grabbing the cup, trying not to think about anything else.

 

The coffee helps a bit. The smell, the taste, it’s the perfect symbol of a new day. But the problem with a new day is the more Steph sobers up, the more he has to face reality. What happened, happened. And he wishes this was just about the championship loss.

 

Sipping his coffee, he makes his way across his living room to the screen-glass doors, shielding the sun with thick black drapes. With his free hand, he pulls open the drapes, and the sunlight glares bright through the glass façade, blinding Steph immediately. He sighs through his nose, eyes burning already, and takes a sip of his coffee, trying to wake himself up.

 

The pain doesn't let up when he pulls open the door and steps outside, colors and crisp early summer sunlight piercing his retinas. It's too much. Even though it’s the breath-taking view of his brand new pool area, shimmering water and flat concrete, it all feels entirely pointless.

 

Steph was in denial about a lot of things: he wasn't worried about next year. He didn't care about his bandwagon fans. He didn't care about the Durant trade. But the one thing he most vehemently denied was the fact that he had feelings – some ugly strong feelings - for LeBron. He almost throws up right there thinking about it.

 

In truth, it irritated him that LeBron seemed insensible and disinterested - a conclusion he'd come to from every encounter they had, and his Instagram photo from weeks ago solidified this conclusion. Steph had even personally observed that LeBron was a shameless flirt, and a good one. Better than Klay, even; subtle, and without the man’s smarminess.

 

He hears his cellphone buzzing on the counter, and he has to hold his coffee with both hands as he rushes across the room to grab it. It’s a text from a childhood friend in Chicago. He just got engaged and wants Steph to come out and party. There’s only one motivational factor in his life at the moment, and that’s avoiding and ignoring LeBron. He can’t book a plane fast enough.

 

* * *

 

In the dingy yellow light of the cab’s back seat, Steph flips through his photos; licking his lips thoughtfully as he pages through pictures of him and random women he’d partied with this week. It’s almost two in the morning in Chicago, and he’d spent all night at the club with his childhood friend and their mutual friends. It was unlike him, the usual him. He’d been nonstop hanging out with his friends and sight-seeing for days.

 

He tucks his phone away and smiles to himself wearily—it was a good week coming. Even though he never ended up hooking up with any of the women he flirted with—came pretty close—he’d even reinstalled Instagram and posted several of photos on his page thought the week of him and his friends with different women at different clubs. And he was proud of himself. He never even looked at LeBron’s pictures, never had the urge. Unfortunately, his photos had gotten some negative media attention and his manager wouldn’t stop texting him to stop, but it was worth it.

 

It makes him giddy thinking about it; all the time he’d spent trying to get over this weird thing between him and LeBron, he was finally able to think about something besides that kid from Akron. He was excited to go home and hang out with his family, tell them all about his trip in Chciago.

Steph jiggles his leg a bit in the seat, suddenly restless with the desire to go home. He’s not sure how he would be managing if he hadn’t snagged a last minute flight opening; he misses his bed and his family terribly. It feels like, between the championship, his moping, and his partying, he’s barely had any time with them.

 

He slips out of the taxi and passes the driver his fare in cash, thanking him casually with a sleepy smile. All he has to do is grab his things from his hotel room and check out before he can catch his flight. Luckily, he had booked a hotel room connected to the airport for easy access.

 

Feeling slightly tipsy and tired, Steph walks through the hotel lobby with a set goal of heading to his room, no stops and no chatting with fans. Once inside the elevator, he slides his phone out of his pocket to avoid talking to two random tourists next to him and scrolls through the comments on his Instagram.

 

 Some of his female fans call him out for man-whoring but most say things liked “damn, she can get it” or “get some!” These kinds of reactions that make him laugh. But if he’s honest with himself, he feels a bit bad for posting a photo of the girls without asking.

 

Steph beams to himself; happy he’s made himself come out here, and exits the elevator when it comes to his floor. When he makes it to his room at the end of the hall, he slides his keycard easily into the lock and puts his phone into his back pocket. There are some side table lights still on in the room, light glowing in the late night’s darkness.

 

The happy feeling diminishes when he notices a familiar pair of shoes turned over, like they were kicked off, next to a spare pair of Steph’s on the floor. It’s not possible, he tells himself. The next thing he notices, when he goes to pack up his laptop in the living room, is all the bottles of beer littering the table. Steph hasn’t been sober much of this trip by any means, but he doesn’t remember bringing up this much beer. He pads out into the living room area and frowns, happy feeling completely going away.

 

This is wrong. It churns heavy in his stomach, but he ignores it and carefully steps around the beer bottles on the floor toward the bedroom. He chews on his lip and walks into the bedroom, glancing around the room until he sees the man sitting on his bed silently.

 

Steph recognizes the other instantly, and he feels his hands start to shake. It’s LeBron. Of course it’s LeBron. He’s always been afraid of this, deep in the back of his mind, knowing Chicago was so close to Cleveland. He just never thought it was actually possible, not that it would ever happen.

 

This shouldn’t be happening, he thinks as he stares at the other silently, reaching his hand out on the door frame to steady himself. He’s a little drunk, but he doesn’t remember giving anyone his key. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know what options there are; all he knows is the shitty pattern on the hotel carpet and he’s wearing jeans.

 

He finally looks up when LeBron doesn’t say anything, and he’s just sitting there staring, raising a brow at Steph. "What the fuck are you doing here, man?" Steph asks suddenly, a little too loud, a little too drunk. He wants LeBron to admit he came here for Steph, or to get angry and leave so he can go back to pretending not to care just long enough to move on. He needs to hear it in LeBron’s voice, needs LeBron admit it.

 

Silence. He’s cruel. He’s always been needlessly cruel. Steh turns to look at the tv in the bedroom he hadn’t noticed was on before and flinched slightly as a loud noise from inside the TV went off. He had just been sitting in his room watching Sports Center.

 

The last patience inside of Steph dissipated after that. "Get the hell out of my hotel," Steph ordered, feeling confident from the alcohol. He pointed to the front door, his eyes never leaving LeBron."

 

LeBron raises his eyes at him and slightly smiles, smug and probably tipsy. He presses the palms of his hands on his knees and leans forward a bit. "Why?" He asked coyly, and the oblivious question made Steph’s gaze turn red.

 

"Are you serious? You broke into my hotel room or some shit, and this ain’t even Cleveland, " Steph snarled, throwing a seething glare at the other. LeBron jumped back dramatically, acting shocked at the guttural tone in Steph’s voice. "Whoa now, what's gotten into you, huh? I was in town and thought I’d come by.”

 

LeBron bent over to retrieve another beer bottle his foot was about to step in and tossed it effortlessly into the trashcan, along with several others. Meanwhile, rage was building up inside of Steph. "Why the fuck are you still here, man? I told you to get out of my fucking hotel!" The longer LeBron stays, the warmer he feels, the more aroused he gets.

 

The higher his hopes climb. He wants LeBron to enable him more, let him take and get nice and warm and comfortable again and take, take, take, until he’s sucked Steph dry. He wants LeBron’s attention like water or air; he wants to touch him again, and feel that satisfaction. But he knows it’s not good for him. It’s disgusting.

 

“You’re right. I should leave so you can fuckin’ party more with all your bitch friends?” LeBron says, agreeing with Steph. His voice is raw and angry. His fingers dance on his knees, and Steph can tell the other wants to stand up; unsure of how much he’s had to drink, he’s not sure if it’s a good idea. But he knows he needs him to leave, needs to upset him enough to leave.

 

Steph lets out a snort and rolls his eyes at the sarcastic and bitter statement. Something hostile rises in the back of his throat. “Fuck you, man,” He mumbles, quieter now. “You were fucking partying up in Italy with CP and Wade and all this bitches, or whatever the fuck.” The words slide out of his mouth before he realizes what he said.

 

Trying to save himself, he looks away from LeBron before he can see his reaction and turns to walk out of the bedroom. He can feel his heart start to pound, face warm with anger. “Just get out, dude,” He calls back to him, trying not to run into the kitchen area. There’s a sound of LeBron leaving the bed and nothing following that until he’s suddenly harshly shoved from behind--his hip connecting with the counter and tanking a painful hiss out of his mouth.

 

"What the fuck, dude?" Steph screeches, turning around to look at LeBron, but he was already walking away with his back turned. His heart starts pounding even harder, and he listens to his instincts from the playground, instead of the one saying this guy could kill you with his bare hands.

 

He quickly jogs up behind LeBron, roughly shoving him forward, nearly making the man stumble into the table in the dining area in his drunken stupor. "You fucking dick, don't put your hands on me! This ain’t the court where you can get away with this shit!” Steph continues to yell, feeling out of breath and flustered, aching on the inside. He still can’t believe this is happening. LeBron just fucking shoved him.

 

Stunned for a split second, LeBron glares up at Steph who defiantly glares down at him, leaning against the chair to keep his balance. "You fucking bitch," LeBron snarls angrily, surging forward and quickly running after Steph, who suddenly comes to his senses and backs up. Trying to get away from a 6-foot-, 250 pound man isn’t the easiest escape, but he manages to get as far as behind the kitchen island before the alcohol really catches up with him, sweat rolling down his back and room spinning.

 

LeBron comes after him swiftly, rounding the kitchen until he’s in front of Steph, and shoves him against the kitchen sink, pressing his large hands on his chest. At first, Steph thinks that’s it until LeBron gets a solid right hook to his jaw, taking him by complete surprise. His lip starts splitting and bleeding, and he knows he will have a nasty bruise where it landed. He’s stunned. LeBron just punched him.

 

The hotel’s buzzing around him, and he quickly tries to fight back before he can stop himself. LeBron is quicker than him and reaches up to grab his fist with ease, staring down at him with a smirk. He reaches out to tightly grasp Steph’s free arm with his own.

 

 Steph has flashes of how they got here, flashes of the look in LeBron’s eyes when he caught him in his room, but he can’t put the pieces together coherently. They’re together, now, locked onto each other and something is about to explode. This had been his chance, maybe, when he could have walked away - a million moments, probably, but one this one stands out his mind like it was lit up under a spotlight.

 

Now restrained, Steph glares up into LeBron’s gaze, looking for something, anything. Fiery flames danced before them, kicking up an inferno in between them. LeBron says nothing but squeezes his arm until it’s turned white with loss of circulation. He hates LeBron right now more than almost anyone else he’s ever met.

 

And he wants him so bad right now he could scream. "Just get out," Steph says, voice broken and nakedly begging to be ignored. He doesn’t want to stop. He just doesn’t want to be the one who wants to keep going. It’s not what he wants, the fighting and the punching, but he does have his attention.

 

LeBron laughs, a bitter, hard sound that echoes off the walls. His smile isn’t friendly but mocking, predatory maybe. “So you can slut it up some more, hm?” It’s low, mocking, and Steph wants to try and punch him in the face again, can almost picture it; the need is so bad. There’s a memory of their last time together creeping up on him, his fingers are itching and his mouth feels swollen, lips starting to hurt again. He needs LeBron, and he needs something completely different all at the same time. It’s impossible, so he says nothing and looks up at him defiantly, fingers pushing on his wrist in an attempt to pull back.

 

“Is this you tryin’ to get back at me?” LeBron asks angrily, smile disappearing from his face, eyes blood shot and narrowed in on him. “Fuckin’ any random sluts in Chicago who give you the eye?”

 

The room starts to become disproportionate, LeBron’s face looming in a little too large, almost overwhelming. He’d overdone it with the booze, like he always did. He could tell by LeBron’s rank breath that he wasn’t much better off.

 

 He felt like gagging as LeBron exhaled in his face. “Fuck you. I don’t need your shit, man. I can do whatever the hell I want,” Steph practically yells, his voice ringing tin in the hotel room, and he jerks his arm to try and get it out of LeBron’s grasp, hard enough that LeBron almost loses his grip.

 

“You’re the one acting like a pissy bitch ‘cause I went on vacation,” LeBron snarls, pulling himself up a little taller, glaring down at Steph’s face. Steph doesn’t meet his eyes. “You don’t answer my fucking texts, don’t call or nothing, and then you fucking out here in Chicago---“

 

Steph cuts him off before he can finish, “Like I gave a fuck, I was busy,” He lies, and oh, there’s a fury rising in him now with the hurt, and it stings knowing he’s made LeBron so powerful. “I didn’t do shit. You—” Steph watches him swallow, watches the tension crank LeBron’s shoulders up a little further, a little tighter, and it’s like it all becomes so clear. LeBron was actually upset that Steph was ignoring him. The king has left his castle to look for the Prince in the woods, sword in its holster, and shield lowered, slightly.

 

 He should call him out right now, embarrass him, and leave without anything else between them. He could walk out now, he knows, and LeBron would never mention it again.


	2. Zwei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, it cometh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll ready for this? na na na na na na
> 
> I loved your comments so much last time that I worked faster. Also, I was feeling angry about work shit and wanted to ignore it.
> 
> Hopefully this is what you wanted. Fuck it if not, I tried.

 

Steph doesn’t leave. He kisses him, instead.

 

He kisses LeBron because he can’t do anything else, can’t focus on anything else. He kisses him because there’s something dark and hot and brutal squeezing up his throat, can’t breathe for it, and LeBron’s always been better for him than oxygen. It’s too much for him.

 

Hormones racing, feeling powerful, he hears LeBron make a jagged noise against his mouth, and his fingers dig too sharp into Step’s wrist and arm, but he pushes into it, teeth bared and rough against LeBron’s lips.

 

"You’re such a slut for me," LeBron bites out against his lips, and let’s go of Steph’s arm to reach up and grab his short hair, hard enough that Steph gasps at the hurt, a hundred pinpricks at his nape where his nerves are softest. As his hair is short and recently cut, LeBron slides his hand down and palms the back of his head instead, giant fingers wrapping around his skull like a basketball.

 

 Steph ignores the comment, leaning further into the dirty heat of LeBron’s mouth, the angry slide of their lips and tongues. He’s still backed against the kitchen sink, trapped between it and the ready fury in LeBron’s muscles, but he doesn't give an inch, even as Steph presses toward him. Licking Steph’s bottom lip with his tongue, LeBron scrapes his short nails down the back of his neck, makes the ragged edges sting.  When Steph steps forward to push a thigh between his legs, the other snarls and shoves forward, pressing their hips together like a challenge.

 

LeBron loudly growls incoherent rage against the furious pressure of Steph’s lips. It burns through him, fire blistering down his veins and up his throat, until he’s not sure if it’s more the freefall swoop of desire or the tight knot of rage that is trembling through his hands when he wraps his arms around the other’s large frame. He feels and hears LeBron hiss against this lips as he slips his hands under his shirt and rake his nails up and down the other’s back, marking his territory.

 

A satisfactory groan pushes out of Steph, and he nips gently at his tongue, getting another delicious groan out of the other. He can feel the flex of LeBron’s movements on his back, can feel the shift of his shoulders and the tremor along his spike as he presses flush against Steph’s chest; they’re so near Steph is sure LeBron will be able to feel the pounding of his heart, like his adrenaline will telegraph itself directly through the insufficient barrier of their shirts.

 

“LeBron,” Steph manages, fitting the words into the gap between kisses, pleading for more.  While LeBron is momentarily distracted, his fingers trace down his back, urging LeBron’s shirt deliberately; Steph’s skin prickles into heat, his hips tip themselves forward off the support of the sink of their own accord. “Ah.” His voice is jumping higher, the low threat of sound catching alight, turning into a gasp at the back of his throat.

 

“Tell me, bitch,” LeBron rumbles, the nickname enough to stand as reason and explanation all on its own. He lets go of Steph momentarily to slide his hand under Steph’s shirt and press against his bare chest, the press of it enough to pin the other to the counter forever. Steph can’t breathe except to push against the weight of it, to arch against the calluses of his palm catching against the sweat-damp of his skin.

 

“Fuck me,” Steph orders, flushing with embarrassment before fitting his mouth to the others to avoid hearing his reply. LeBron is gentle with his mouth now, careful with the friction he gives and the slide of his tongue when he licks against the cut on Steph’s lower lip.

 

It makes Steph shiver, to be so delicately treated by the man and held so utterly immobile at the same time. And then LeBron’s hips rock forward to grind against him and Steph groans too-loud into his mouth. It’s enough to make him flush hot just hearing the sound he’s making, but LeBron rumbles something incoherent and presses against him again, and Steph goes far hotter than embarrassment could account for.

 

LeBron is unmistakably hard against his leg, so hard Steph can feel the large girth right through the shorts he’s wearing. Steph might be wearing jeans but that just gives him the advantage of friction to press himself against. He arches forward off the sink again, angling himself against the resistance of the other’s leg, and LeBron sighs in appreciation as his hand falls from Steph’s chest to his hip instead, fingers pressing in hotly.

 

He breaks the kiss and finally removes his other hand from his head, quickly and efficiently. Steph hears himself whine, lips still sore from the punch and the kissing. “Move,” LeBron says, the command so simple Steph can’t even make sense of it for a moment, but then the man’s hand is sliding down his jeans and along his leg. LeBron tugs his thigh, and Steph moves obediently to lift his leg as indicated before LeBron reaches behind him to palm his ass, hands pausing for a moment to grope him.

 

There’s a moment of gravity shifting, Steph’s balance careening sideways and off from over his feet, wooziness from the alcohol suddenly hitting him again. Trying to steady himself, he grabs at LeBron’s shoulder, and clings to the support of the other’s torso, and LeBron is lifting him off the floor by his bum rocking forward to drop Steph on the edge of counter a few feet over as he urges the other’s leg up and around his hip.

 

Steph leans against the cabinet that’s suddenly behind him, holds himself by LeBron’s shoulder, and from there it’s an easy motion to slide his other leg free and up to hook around the others hips. Then his balance is back, his back straining with the angle of the position on the edge of the counter.LeBron groans appreciation and presses hard against him, fitting the heat of his cock against the inside angle of Steph’s legs as smoothly as if neither of them are wearing anything at all.

 

He shudders at the friction, his back arching to push him closer, and LeBron’s rough hands steady at his hips to hold him still against the upward thrust he takes with his hips. “Good job,” He chuckles as Steph looks up at him with what can only be described as a lustful expression, lips colored red and mouth slackjaw. “Getting better at following instructions.” There’s a drag of friction, heat spiraling out into Steph’s blood, and he hears himself make a strange shattered sound before he realizes he’s reacting at all, the sound coming from his chest like it’s being pushed from him on the grind of LeBron’s hips against him.

 

The motion is too spontaneous, too careless -- so different from the single-minded focus he is so used to seeing in LeBron. It’s as if he’s forgotten entirely that they’ll need to take the time to get their clothes off before they continue. Steph doesn’t care, moans and bares his throat submissively as he adjusts his tight grip on the back of LeBron’s shirt. “Do it,” He reiterates, gasping when LeBron bites down on his neck like he’s sick with fury.

 

Steph’s curls his fingers tighter and sighs, hips graceless as he humps forward against LeBron. “You want the dick so bad, don't you? You want me to fuck you right here in the kitchen like the filthy whore you are." LeBron growls licentiously, his jaw dropping and panting like a dog's against Steph’s neck. Steph moves again, grinding hard against LeBron, and his head goes back until it hits the counter, eyes going wide with the rush of distracting heat and pain. “Ah. ‘Bron, wait, we should–”

 

“You really want _my_ dick right now? What ‘bout all the bitches out here?” LeBron snaps angrily, cutting Steph off with the low rumble of words against his collar.

 

Despite the harsh words, Steph cried out in frustration. He doesn’t want to tell LeBron the truth. It would only be an admission to what they already know. But Steph can still feel him through his jeans, starts imagining he can feel the damp head of LeBron’s cock catching against his own jeans. “No, fuck them,” He cries out shamefully.

 

After all, LeBron has been the only thing on his mind ever since this – whatever it was – started between the two of them. He was all of his, and no one else's. He digs his nails into LeBron’s neck and impatiently thrusts forward into LeBron’s hardened groin, desperate and wanting.

 

“How can I trust a slut like you? So fucking desperate,” The older man snaps, and oh, there’s a fury rising in him now with the hurt, and it stings even; LeBron must feel powerful. “You didn’t even wait two weeks, fucking already—“Steph stops him before he can finish and pushes at LeBron’s neck until he tips his head down for another bruising kiss.

 

LeBron doesn’t need Steph to answer. It’s plain for anyone to see what he was thinking, and he wants to kill him for it, wants to throttle him, because for all of his keen eyesight, the sixth and seventh sense he has on the court, LeBron can be so fucking blind, to think there was anyone else.

 

Steph pushes all of that into LeBron’s lips, between his teeth; he pushes it into like the fingerprint bruises he’s leaving on his neck. He’s matching him, mark for mark, both of them burning up, digging for any hold they can reach. Steph’s lips feel bruised, tender; he shudders at the rasp of LeBron’s stubble against his mouth while the other pants, his breath hot and damp on his skin.

 

LeBron pulls away from his mouth, and Steph almost cries out again until the other has his mouth on the unmarked side of his throat, lips and teeth fastened there as he works his tongue jealously over the skin, works his hips faster against Steph’s.

 

He lets his hold on LeBron’s neck go, freeing his hands so he can reach down and fumble with the fly of his jeans, but LeBron doesn’t let him go. He’s pressing in closer instead, ducking until Steph falls into the shadow of his shoulders, like he’s making a wall of his body to hem the other in. It should be alarming, would be if it were someone else; under the circumstances it’s just distractingly hot, so much so that Steph’s hands are shaking until it’s hard to get his zipper down enough to loosen his jeans around his hips.

 

“Why I should bother fucking your ass? There are so many other willing holes out there. What makes yours so special?” LeBron growls, low, almost threatening, hands sliding down enough for his thumbs to fit under the top edge of the Steph’s jeans. Steph whines and grabs at LeBron’s shoulders again, bites back a groan as LeBron awkwardly slides his pants down his hips.

 

 He feels self-conscious momentarily, all the rage from early filling him up inside position on the counter, he feels weak and over-powered. “You do this with those chicks on the boat?" Steph blurts out, gazing up at the other with a serious frown. It seems random, but he doesn't regret the question, even when LeBron narrows his eyes, dangerous. He meant for it to sting.

 

LeBron starts letting go of him and dropping lower before Steph knows what’s happening. He bends down to lean against a knee in front of the counter and Steph as he strips his clothing off his legs. Steph catches a breath, delayed-reaction embarrassment catching him up as LeBron comes eye-level with his hips, but LeBron doesn’t even pause; he’s pushing Steph’s jeans past his ankles, letting the fabric puddle around the other’s feet until it’s a simple matter to step free of them. He doesn’t startle, at least, and the adrenaline rushing through his veins is still heat instead of the chill bite of panic. He moves without being told, leaning hard against the counter to keep his balance and LeBron catches his leg as he shakes off his jeans.

 

The anticipation makes his legs shake, tenses all along his thighs into an involuntary shudder, and LeBron chuckles something that sounds like satisfaction and reaches around to brace a hand under Steph’s thigh. His hand slides high, takes what weight Steph isn’t supporting on his own, and then he’s holding him one-handed while he reaches for the pocket of his shorts. Steph’s trying to think straight even as he keeps losing focus, wondering where LeBron is going with this. His cock aches, and he has to grip LeBron’s shoulder tighter to stop himself from finishing right there.

 

“Here,” LeBron grumbles, and Steph blinks himself into enough focus to see the bottle in LeBron;s hand, the plastic of it slick with past use and the lid still closed. Are you kidding me, he thinks to himself, he came prepared. “If you want my cock, you’re going to have to work for it.” Steph leans down, reaching up with one hand to grab the counter to keep himself up, tipping his head to the side without thinking, his eyelashes fluttering shut as he twists the lid off the bottle by feel instead of by sight.

 

Steph is ready to spill the lube over his own fingers, has his palm ready to catch the liquid, but LeBron’s hold closes on his wrist to draw his other hand away. When Steph blinks his vision back into focus, his large fingers are held up as if in offering. He doesn’t say anything or even look at him when Steph drips the liquid over LeBron’s palm and across the calluses laid along each of the joints of his fingers.

 

It only takes a second; then LeBron is drawing away, pressing his fingers against each other with the slick sound that comes with the lubrication, and Steph is rushing to cap the bottle again before he loses track of what he’s doing. H’s barely got the lid back in place before LeBron’s thick fingers are sliding between his thighs, and when the other’s slick touch bumps against his entrance, he jerks against the counter and the bottle slides from his suddenly unsteady grip. He doesn’t listen for it hitting the floor; he reaches out instead, clutching a suddenly desperate hold at LeBron’s shoulder as a familiar touch presses slick liquid against his skin.

 

“Show me how eager that little hole is to be filled with dick,” LeBron purrs, his voice rumbling into the odd low range that always makes him sound a little like he’s threatening, and Steph knows what’s coming, clenching up before LeBron steadies his touch and lines his fingers up. He’s quick about it, as if there’s some kind of a rush in the action; one slick thrust and he’s knuckle-deep, the friction of his finger sliding into Steph enough to knock the breath clear out of his lungs.

 

Steph clenches around the friction, his reaction too reflexive to restrain, but he’s groaning too, putting voice to the heat of anticipation that flares his blood to fire in his veins as LeBron’s touch slides into him. When he pushes in deeper, Steph can feel the sensation ache low in his stomach as if LeBron’s touch is aligned directly with the heat in his cock. He’s arching against the cupboard, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth. His hard cock presses up against his stomach, and he grips the other’s shoulder tighter to stop himself from touching. LeBron moves closer as if he’s being pulled as he draws his hand back to slide in again in a long thrust of movement.

 

“That’s it, bitch. Take my fingers in your slutty hole. That’s all it’s good for,” LeBron rumbles, from there he scissors him, stretching him out even more. Steph can feel himself shaking, can feel the tremors running through his body from heat rather than the effort of their position.

 

LeBron pulls back by a bare handful of inches and blinks shadows from his lashes to gaze at Steph’s face. He can feel the heat cresting color over his cheekbones, can feel the flush of want marking his lips to red, but LeBron’s gaze is steady, solid like the rock he has always seems to be in Steph’s eyes. “Your ass is nothing special, you know that?”

 

It’s barely stings. Steph is too good at ignoring his punitive words. “I don’t care,” Steph breaths, and shifts his legs to rock his hips up, to shift the drag of LeBron’s touch inside him and to show the other how hard he is between his legs. His eyelashes flutter, throat works on a groan that doesn’t make it to sound, and he lets himself lean against the cupboard. “Please.”

 

LeBron doesn’t say anything else. He shifts his hold at Steph’s leg, adjusts his grip to brace the other in place; then he slides his hand back, and touches the tip of a second finger alongside the first, and Steph shudders at the first slick stretch as his fingers dip and slide into him. It’s a stretch, an ache he’s familiar with; he can feel the push of it all the way up his spine, straining along the curve of his back and shaking in his thighs as his body protests the breadth of LeBron’s fingers pushing him open.

 

But it’s better, it’s more, and when Steph opens his mouth it’s not protest he offers but, “Yes,” hot and dragging into a rumble he didn’t know he could put on his voice.  He lets his breath out in a rush, pushes his fingers in deeper, eyelashes fluttering. His legs are shaking, his cock is flushing harder than before up against his stomach, and LeBron’s inside him again, stretch of his fingers slipping deeper with every breath he takes.

 

LeBron moves and carefully draws his hand fingers in and half-out of Steph so he can thrust in again in one long stroke of motion. The younger gasps, his body tightening involuntarily against the slick push, and LeBron is making some sound too low to carry any meaning but appreciation.

 

He’s clenching around LeBron’s fingers in a strange, helpless rhythm, the grip of his body tightening involuntarily around the intrusion, but the other is not stopping, is drawing back to thrust in again with a steady-slow pattern to his motion that feels inevitable, that feels unstoppable. It makes Steph go hotter with just the idea of it, tightens a knot of want low in his stomach, and when LeBron pushes back into him the ache spikes higher, he reaches up to slap his hand against the cupboard, trying to steady himself on the counter.

 

“LeBron,” He breaths, and the other groans in annoyance, pushes in farther in anticipation of what he thinks Steph wants. The friction is good, the friction arches Steph’s spine and widens his eyes, but it’s not what he wants, it’s not the answer to his unstated question. “You gotta’ fuck-”

 

LeBron stops immediately. It’s not until he’s drawing back to stare at Steph’s face that his thoughts clear enough to allow for the realization of what he must have sounded like, enough to give him the means to parse the sudden concern clear in LeBron’s dark eyes. “You’re a slut for my cock, huh? You need it.” Steph takes a breath as LeBron hums and drags his fingers out of him in a careful slide, tries to find words to explain himself; but in the end he’s too hot, and too hard, and it’s easier to move instead, to speak with his body instead of with his mouth.

 

He lets one of his hands go, removes his other from LeBron, who goes still, backing him against the counter without moving in for more, and Steph reaches down between them to fit the shape of his trembling hand between the gap of their bodies onto the edge of the counter until he can push himself off. Standing with his bum against the counter but feet flat on the floor, he brushes his fingers against the bottom of LeBron’s t-shirt; and then he finds the elastic of his shorts, and his fingers curl into a hold before he’s had time to think through the motion.

 

“You still want me to fuck you tonight?” LeBron whispers as he leans in closer, breath tickling against Steph’s ear, and Steph shudders at the tone, pushing the fabric down off the sharp line of his hips. “Are you gonna’ be a good?” Ignoring LeBron still, he spreads his fingers wide to push against the heat of the other’s stomach and down. His shorts slide easy, give way with indecent haste, and then Steph’s fingers brush hot-hard skin and all his body goes electric as he feels out the shape of the other’s  stiff cock, his own arching up against his stomach.

 

Steph’s eyelashes flutter, head ducking down, and his breath leaves him in a rush, shoulders hunching in the first sign of strain he’s shown since LeBron pushed him against the counter. He’s hard to the touch, slick and swollen hot against the head. Steph presses his thumb to the soft skin, drags his touch against the damp, and LeBron shudders, the movement running through his entire body until Steph can feel it as LeBron reaches behind him, Steph’s arse cheeks to hold him in place.

 

He takes a breath. “I’ll be good,” Steph says, and he sounds shaky but feels hot, and he quickly lets go of LeBron and turns around quickly so that his back presses up against the other’s chest. It’s awkward and hard with LeBron hovering over him, but he’s fast in his motions like he is on the court.

 

Trying to catch the other by surprise, he reaches down behind them and closes his fingers around the base of LeBron’s cock. The other groans faint in the back of his throat, edges closer in obedience to the urging of Steph’s hold, and Steph is breathing harder but he can’t stop, can’t slow himself down enough to take a breath. LeBron is letting him have some semblance of control.

 

He hears LeBron take a startled breath, his hand coming out to brace hard at the counter. His other hand reaches around Steph’s waist to hold him in place, and Steph arches closer, his chest too tight on anticipation to allow him the benefit of speech. But LeBron is sighing, the sound of relief hot as a promise on his breath, and then his arm around his waist tightens. Steph leans forward to get a better angle and LeBron’s cock slides past Steph’s hold and pushes into the other’s body. The heat in his veins has a strong hold on him, the ache in his stomach is too tense, and when he moves, to drag himself nearer as he guides the hot-slick head of LeBron’s cock into himself.

 

Steph moans, something hot and shaky and helpless, and LeBron chokes a breath and slides deeper, his arm around his waist coming back around to place his hand on Steph’s back if to spell out the strain in his body as his hips move with the unflinching steadiness Steph’s always seen in his face.

 

 “Work your hole around my cock, bitch. You’ve got to earn it, work for my load.” LeBron says, his voice hot behind Steph and strained like he’s never heard it, edging into a high range of effort that makes him sound younger than he usually does, makes him seem uncertain and desperate in a way that Steph wonders if they should have used a condom.

 

It doesn’t seem to matter. He’s hot, the width of him heavy and hard as he pushes into Steph’s body, and Steph wants it, wants this and more and harder and deeper, wants it until he’s shaking with anticipation for the other’s next move. He reaches his hands out to grab the counter to steady himself as his legs start shaking too.

 

The king hesitates, draws back an inch, but then he’s coming back in before Steph can think, thrusting forward in a rush that leaves Steph breathless. LeBron leans forward until his stomach is flush with Steph’s back, groaning so hot at Steph’s shoulder it rivals the stretch inside him. Steph gasps air, clutches desperately at the counter, and LeBron moves again, turning his head in to press his lips warm against Steph’s throat as he thrusts into him.

 

Steph is staring at nothing, his vision unfocused and unimportant to his awareness at the moment; even the ache in his legs is falling hazy into the distance, rendered inconsequential by the stretch and ache of LeBron filling him, of his hands and arms bracing him flush against his chest. When he moves, it’s an unstudied thing, a turn of his head and a part of his lips and then his mouth on LeBron’s, his lips finding the shape of the other man’s as easily as if they were meant to come together.

 

This time, when LeBron groans, Steph can taste it on his tongue, can feel the rush of heat from the sound surge hot into his cock, which bobs in front of him, aching to be touched. He chokes and whines as LeBron lets his grip on the other go, trusts them both while he drops his slick hand to close around Steph’s length. Hs palm is hot, his hold strong, and Steph jerks with just the promise of friction.

 

From the uncomfortable position, to the torturous fucking and relentless pounding into his prostate, Steph was getting hotter and more flustered. His stomach was an inferno now; flames sprouted inside of him, threatening to unleash a hard and bone shuddering orgasm. "Fuck," He stammers, throat raw from moaning.

 

LeBron bit onto his busted lip and pulled back, then nosed along his jaw until he found his ear. "You're gonna’ come already? You better beg for it,” He grows, but he was about to come undone himself. Steph found LeBron’s arms right back around his neck and mouth along his neck, pressing his fingers into bruising markings.

He was bent over the sink, his stomach compressed against the hard edge while LeBron attacked from behind in a relentless speed, matching the fast stroking around his cock. A burning coil was tightening in the center of his stomach in an agonizingly slow rate, dragging his teeth over his lips as it built up in pressure. “Please, ‘Bron,” Steph is writhing desperately now, cheeks flushed splotchy red.

 

“What would those bitches say if they saw you right now?” He wonders aloud, gripping his cock tighter if possible. “The media darling stretched out on my fat cock, begging for a load.”

 

Steph knows his career would be ruined, but he's got nothing to say in his defense, nothing but the way his body responds to LeBron’s, damning in its eloquence. “Shut up,” Steph answers, breathless, the color high in his cheeks while his body squeezes unbearably around LeBron’s cock.

 

LeBron stops playing with his neck and breaths deeply against his ear. "Who do you belong to?"  Steph can tell he's coming apart at the seams, losing the fight against the wild fury carrying him. He’s fucking too fast, too desperately, driving into him as if that might let him leave his own mark, and Steph still moaning softly.

 

He drops his head and concentrates on the sweat dripping from his head, the strong grip on his cock, and the erratic clench of LeBron’s hand at his throat, tightening more and more. “You,” His voice comes short and harsh, too loud, layered over the soft of LeBron thrusting into him; he can hear the tremble in it, the waver that isn't quite concealed when he sucks in another gasp.

 

It’s only a few seconds later that he feels the sensation of hot liquid filling his arse. It unravels his thoughts, can all but see his focus evaporating from his vision, and then he’s moaning into LeBron’s mouth, rocking himself forward to thrust into LeBron’s hand or push further onto his cock, he’s not sure which and doesn’t care. LeBron groaning behind him, the sound loud and strained, and Steph’s so close, so fucking close.

 

Then his hand is tightening and Steph can’t even tell if he’s moving anymore, can’t track the stroke of LeBron’s hand over his cock as separate from the drive of the other still fucking up into him after he just came. He can’t believe he is still moving, still thrusting into him with each quiver of sensation. It feels good, to have the stretch of him to clench down on, to have the friction of his motion, pulling Steph’s orgasm hot and shaky and endless, thick white liquid dribbling out of his cock.

 

For a minute Steph thinks he’s going to come forever, but then LeBron lets his cock go and grabs for his hip instead, his hand seizing into a hold so desperate.

 

Though LeBron doesn’t let himself bask in the afterglow, the way Steph thought he would this time. He pulls out too fast, too rough, the fading thrill of orgasm no match for everything else slamming into him as the pleasure ebbs. Steph leans down to quickly pull up his underwear discarded on the floor, pulls them up despite the mess on his stomach, and LeBron reaches down to adjust his own shorts. There’s a dangerous twist in his stomach, and LeBron isn’t moving, isn’t speaking.

 

He needs to leave. It’s how this goes: they fuck, they don’t talk afterward, LeBron leaves. This time, though, that thought doesn’t help him move. He leans against on the edge of the counter, his skin itchy where the sweat is drying, and he stares at his knees. He doesn’t turn to look at him—can’t hear LeBron at all, not even his breathing—and he doesn’t move to find his pants.

 

He clears his throat once, then again.

 

“Can’t do this anymore.”

 

Steph needs to see LeBron’s reaction. He lifts his chin to meet the other’s gaze, ad his eyes are dark, unfathomable; Steph could stare into them for a lifetime and still have no guess as to the other’s thoughts. LeBron steps closer until they are a foot apart, his touch sliding along Steph’s cheek like he’s tracing the shape of the muscle under the skin. Steph shuts his eyes and leans his head against the cupboard so he can focus on the texture of LeBron’s fingers on his skin.

 

“Like you could stop.” LeBron chuckles, and Steph would give anything to hear a real reaction in his voice as he says it.

 

“We should,” Steph’s voice is too broken to bother disguising. Every time he meets LeBron like this, it guts him all over again, and usually he’s good at using rage to cover it but he’s been scraped bare this time.

 

LeBron gives him the kiss he’s looking for gladly. It’s short, chaste—almost oddly so, until Steph considers it as a goodbye kiss.

 

His legs are a little shaky and his whole body is radiant with excess heat ,and LeBron’s  expression falling into the stoic lines it always takes on. “Go home and sleep,” LeBron says when the moment breaks, moving away so he can begin his walk-of-shame toward the door.

 

Steph is so frozen in place that he says and does nothing as he watches the taller man walk out the door of his hotel. Leaning his head back against the cupboard, he closes his eyes again and listens for the soft click of the hotel door shutting. He’ll keep going, he just needs—a moment, a beat to catch his breath as sense-memory hits again in scattered flashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IS THIS THE END? FINE OUT WHENEVER I POST NEXT, IF I DO.
> 
> xoxo
> 
> you know you love me
> 
>  
> 
> pssttt....checkmat3y.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments and kudos are very appreciated!
> 
> Don't be shy, baby. Hit me up @ Checkmat3y.tumblr.com


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